Seven Deadly Sins
by Madame Crimson
Summary: Our deadly crimson duo aren't blind to the master that controls their actions... Lust, gluttony, greed, sloth, wrath, envy, pride. The seven deadly sins. A blessing, or a curse? [SEE INTRODUCTION FOR BETTER SUMMARY.] Rated T for violence, drinking and smoking, and mature themes.
1. Introduction

**Author's Note:** Hello, everyone. I haven't written anything in months, but now, I'm trying to redeem myself. In this fanfiction, I will be writing seven one-shots of Madame Red and Grell, each with a theme of one of the seven deadly sins. This first chapter is to just introduce this fanfiction, but know that I am working hard to bring you this story!

With this introduction, I've written a poem to go with the writing. This poem is something I took probably only half an hour to write, so it's not very good... but I tried to write it with the perspective of Madame Red and Grell both.

Enjoy, and I hope I've gotten you eager for this fanfiction! c:

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It's a pain and a trill, this power over me besides,  
A strength I have not over me, but in my heart resides,  
The little things that matter not, how I want them so,  
When their burdens become my yearning, then my **ENVY** starts to show,  
I wish and pray, to no avail, I give away my soul.

The wine that trickles down my lips, I have too much of that,  
Why fill the space with empty words when it occupies my mind,  
Of hands that hold the puppet strings and shivers down my spine,  
My **GLUTTONY** of things that people want but cannot have,  
The wine on my lips and diamonds on my neck, both suffocate and choke me,  
I want more, but not of the things that I can see.

This want and longing for these things, they drive me to insanity,  
And my **GREED** becomes the noose that they strung around my neck.

It's not the appeal that draws me to her, oh, it's much more then that,  
Something to caress me and break me all the same,  
The **LUST** that drives me to go back,  
A power that I scream not, but whisper against her skin,  
It's a sigh, it's a breath, it's a destructive, deadly sin.

My **SLOTH** has made me ignorant, and I quickly turn my face,  
From things that shine their light on a many empty place,  
Because there, they offer no revenge, or something to subside,  
The emotions that I feel are boiling over on the inside.

I look into the mirror and see a face I hate,  
They call it **PRIDE** **or VANITY** , that's what it been of late,  
But when I become obsessed with having to look the part,  
That my mind enrolls in,  
I can't tell if it's a blessing or a sin.

They have everything I wanted, yet they cast it to the fire,  
When they tell me it's a burden,  
My rage and **WRATH** becomes a dangerous desire,  
To take it from them so they could feel the pain.

A power taken over my mind,  
And she should feel the same-  
The things that drive to these things,  
I know them by one name,  
The Seven Deadly Sins are a master with a growing flame.


	2. Gluttony

**Author's Note:** Hello, everyone. Here is the first chapter of this fanfiction. I don't have much to say here, except for disclaimers and the like.

I'll start off with saying that this fanfiction does have drinking. I'm sure it's no big deal to most of you, though.

Next, I do use female pronouns for Grell. As I always say, it's my own preference, and if you have a problem with it, you can address it in a message if you must, but I'll leave you to your opinions, if you leave me to mine. I do think that I mention Grell's gender dysphoria in this chapter briefly, also. I believe Grell is a trans woman (with canonical evidence), so that's where that comes from, if you were wondering.

Characters belong to Yana Toboso.

I did check this the best I could for grammar and spelling errors, as I do believe that it totally ruins a story for some of you out there to have words misspelled or used incorrectly, so I hope I didn't fail you there. I've noticed this fanfiction is mostly a look into what Madame Red, exclusively, is feeling, and I tried to make it more action and grounded rather then all of her thoughts. Hopefully you won't get bored. .

Enjoy! c:

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 **Gluttony** \- having more then what is sufficient, even to an unhealthy extent or to a point where others have none of something.

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Angelina stared intently at her wine glass, swishing the thick, rich red wine around. The drink splashed up against the sides of the glass and stained them red, fading to only a thinner color as the wine splashed back up over the sides. A lot like the blood, spilt on the dull grey tiles. They never cleaned up after themselves after a murder. Whether they were both too careless to bother cleaning up evidence, or too nervous to stay long enough to do so, neither of them knew. The Madame glanced over at Grell, who had her posture fit to the straight back of the sofa, her spine curved forward just so that she looked alert. What was she trying to hide? She always kept the same posture, shoulders back to push her chest forward, back almost arched from strain. Had she always held herself like that? Certainly not when the redheaded reaper shed her prolific crimson attire and assumed a disguise as a clumsy butler. Then, she allowed her shoulders to slump, to match the character, and perhaps the small voice within herself, that constantly whispered something along the lines of, she wasn't good enough to sit with such a dignified, straight back, even without the meek disguise. Grell was always being defiant of something. Of herself, mostly. What was she running from now, with her back so straight?

Grell had a way of balancing her wine glass between her thumb and index finger that made drinking look like an art, and she looked like a master of the arts, bringing the glossy glass rim up to her cherry red lips, hiding the fact that her bottom lip was trembling. What made her shake so? Angelina's eyes watched as the wine glass was tipped back to reach the shinigami's mouth, red lipstick bleeding on the rim as it was brought back down. The woman looked back at her own hands, which were trembling just the same, swishing the wine around in her own glass to distract themselves. From what? Was it to exercise themselves from the strain of her grip on the knife's handle, as she tore through flesh, ignoring the metallic and meaty smell of blood? Her knuckles turned white with the grip, and she wondered; was it a grip on sanity and life itself, or a grip on a blade, a murder weapon?

They drank because they tried to forget, more specifically, to distract. Like every other thing they did together, to distract them from the fact that another prostitute was dead, at their hands, no less. To smell the bitterness of the alcohol instead of the thickness of blood, and to console their minds as they polluted their thoughts with the buzz that drinking gave them. It was something they were both familiar with, the distracting and ignoring. Maybe one more then the other, perhaps equally. No matter, because they both shared an equal fancy for the drink.

"God, Angie. I hate it when you stare." Grell said suddenly, pulling Angelina from her thoughts.

The woman noticed that her eyes had lingered back up to the redhead's face, and she blinked slowly. She blinked again, quicker, hoping she didn't seem too dull as she opened her mouth to reply. Apparently her response was too slow, because Grell spoke again before she heard an answer. She was never good at patience, it seems.

"What do you stare for? I'm nothing special to look at." The shinigami tilted her head to the side, and as she did, a deep carmine lock of hair fell in front of her glowing eyes. Always the eyes, piercing so, darting about. What was she searching for in the shadows, with those phosphorescent chartreuse orbs? They were glazed over, a hardened shell to conceal emotion. She'd mastered so far, drinking, and the useless and evasive expression in her eyes. People say that eyes are a window to the soul. What a joke, especially when you don't have one.

Angelina spoke carefully, trying not to slur the words as she talked. How much wine _had_ she drank already? "You are. Special, to look at. You're very beautiful, Grell."

Grell smiled. It was a mocking smile, almost taunting the woman as the corners of her lips tipped up, almost wobbling with effort. "How charming. Have you been practicing for a moment when you could try and win me over with sweet words? News flash, Angie. Sweet nothings only work on foolish men. I've heard too many compliments for them to be any more valid."

"Then what am I supposed to say?" Madame Red asked, taking another sip from her glass. If Rachael was there, she would be scolded for not being dainty in her drinking. However, mother's teachings held no place to dine, with a broken scarlet haired woman and a god of death.

"Say nothing." The redhead huffed, narrowing her eyes. Her eyelids were heavy, and they folded over her shining eyes, blinking, not caring if it was too slow. She knew that she didn't look stupid. "It's a woman's place, to stay quiet, is it not?" She'd learned that lesson the hard way.

"I refuse. As the most sensitive feminist I know, Grell, you should at least know that I won't keep silent. Not with any man, and not with you." Angelina retorted, feeling her thoughts jumble together in her head as her vision stuttered in the darkness.

It was dark in her parlor, where she sat, close to her butler, who had shaken out her hair, laced on her heels, and unbuttoned her shirt. Grell never felt a need to keep things modest between them, and now was no exception. The drapes were pulled closed, because Angelina always said that she felt exposed when the moon shone in through the window, the stars staring, blinking down at their mindless indulgence to alcohol, and whatever escape it brought. Her corset felt too tight and her hair fell over her ears in a way that she longed to be able to put it up again. Her long, heavy skirts rested on her hips, with the hem brushed along the floor. It was a stuffy outfit and she hated it too much for words. The only relief she got was a cool draft on her bare arms and neck, and that she could be barefoot and pull the hem up to her mid-calf to expose her ankles, in just the presence of Grell, who didn't care at all if she showed a little skin. Yes, the room was dark, she knew that much. Either that, or she'd closed her eyes to steady herself, and it was dark behind her eyelids. Blinking open her eyes, her vision steadied on Grell, whose pale skin was made visible again as she brushed her stray hair back behind her ear, taking another drink of the wine from her glass. Her skin was illuminated by the slivers of moonlight that did make their way into the room, settling on her face and giving her a deathly glow. The shinigami's eyelashes (false, no less) brushed over the tops of her cheeks, over her chiseled cheekbones. She pursed her lips as she brought the glass back to it's place, resting in her lap, before turning back towards Angelina to make her reply.

"You will be as loud as you please with me as you would with a man, or you would be annoying as hell with any man, and especially with me, regardless that I am not, in fact, a man, useful only to pester?" Grell asked, her eyes darting back to her lap, up to Madame Red's face, across the room at the clock, back to her lap, back up at the Madame's face.

"I am not annoying." Angelina puckered her lips slightly, to pout, or perhaps to bite the insides of her cheeks, like she did when she grew nervous. That was all she could think of to say, but as the words played over again in her mind, she began to question if it was in fact true.

"That is not what I asked. It's a matter of opinion, of course, if you are annoying or not. When you whine about the trivial of things, yes, you are annoying. When you let yourself wild, when you wander..." -smile turned to smirk on Grell's face- "...when you let your hands and lips wander... You are tolerable."

"That's all? I'm tolerable? I was expecting something," Angelina paused as she sipped her drink. "Perhaps, more harsh?" She ignored the suggestiveness of what Grell had said, dismissing it as only a play on words, which was the redhead's favorite thing to do.

"Oh, how could I be harsh? Dear, Angie, no. Not harsh." Grell sighed, giving up the strict, straight posture to lean her head back on the couch, letting her shoulders fall enough to touch Angelina's. It was a defeat for herself, to give in to relaxation, and it didn't happen often.

Madame Red didn't allow herself defeat, however. She stayed sitting up, not allowing herself to lean her head against Grell's shoulder and sigh at her touch. She took another drink, to increase the tingling in her fingers, or to further distract herself from the way the shinigami would breath deeply against her bare skin, when they would find themselves in each other's arms. Angelina didn't allow defeat. To death, she mused, in her head. Ah, one day. Perhaps then, she will allow herself to relax a little, be it in the restless oblivion, or in a religious view point, the fires of hell. She swallowed hard at that thought, and drew her mind to some place else. A place more constant, in the moment. She looked over at Grell, who had finished off her glass, whose lipstick was faded from rubbing off on the rim of the glass that was more loosely held in her hand, now that none of the contents could ruin her white shirt, or the Madame's velveteen sofa cushions.

"What is harsh, Grell? Us drinking because we have the wine, or children starving because they have not the resources for basic needs as food?" Angelina asked, and despite her question, taking another sip.

"That was a drastic change in topics. Are we to talk politics, or must we deal with the more pressing matters at hand that we drink to forget, and then remember in the morning?" The redhead asked, with the ever-present, silly smile on her face. She was an actress, that's what she said, and the Madame couldn't deny it. She had also mastered keeping an always fake smile across her lips. Of course, she was defeated, but defeat never required admittance, did it?

"I feel sick." Angelina muttered, shaking her head. The wine, as it travelled down her throat like liquid blood, felt like it was boiling in her lungs, salty in her heart, and white-washing ribs, eating through her flesh like a hole in her middle, like the empty places in the whores that she ripped wombs from, in a vain attempt to retake what she could never have.

"We all do. The children who starve on the streets and the kings who eat too much have one thing in common, and that is that they are empty, whether physically, or at the heart." Grell said. Her voice fell deeper. Of course, it was deep already, but she usually at least tried to make it sound lighter, whether it worked or not. Now, she was either too tired or too drunk to notice or care that her voice had dropped to a lower tone.

"Everything I have, I wish I could just give it all away. It means nothing, and yet, I still keep it up. Still drinking, still buying dresses and diamonds and things that I think will fill up a void." Madame Red clicked her tongue. Scolding herself, perhaps? Did she have the humility? Or rather, was she even bold enough?

"Nothing will fill you back up again. Not the burying in your paperwork, not those silly brats you dote upon. Not any lover's touch, or a knife's laceration. No," The shinigami sighed again. "Nothing will replace what you had. Would you rather be drinking with Death herself in your parlor, too many hours passed midnight, dead already, or in a grave, in your sister's place, next to the man that you wasted your time loving?"

"I would much rather be dead then in the place I'm in." Angelina said, speaking quickly, too quickly to think about what she was saying.

"You know, that wouldn't be so hard for me to arrange." Grell chuckled. "Goodness, Angie. You're so selfish. Don't you think I need this just as much as you do? I have my own demons. Do you forget?"

"Then, selfish I am. Kill me here, or tomorrow, or a year from now. It matters not." Madame Red took the last sip of her drink, feeling the bittersweet wine burn down her throat. She felt heavy with the drink, like chains on her feet, but light in her head. It was a sensation nothing else could give her. Enough to distract her from everything. At this point, death would be the sweetest release. "Not, anymore."

"I suppose I shall let you live, if you wish to die so. If I am harsh, let me be. Live is but the cruelest of punishments, right?" Grell's chest rose, her whole frame trembling with the effort of her breath. Filling her lungs with air, holding it with her face so calm and chest rigid, Angelina wondered if breathing was a choice to be made blissfully, or a demand of the body and mind. The shinigami had a way of making things like that look as easy as blinking. Perhaps because she'd been practicing, holding her breath with such tranquility, every time William scolded her, or she scolded herself. Ignorance was bliss, isn't that what they said?

"Right." Madame Red whispered. She didn't mean to whisper, but a stronger tone of voice wouldn't have sounded correct.

"Gluttony at it's finest, Angelina. You will be buried with diamonds around her neck and wine dripping on your lips, while those cold and hungry children you speak of will die without a voice or shiver, and without a flower on their headstones." Grell exhaled the air from her lungs with her words, making it effortless, and making it silent, making her nostrils flare.

"It's not a crime, to dote upon yourself."

"For the wrong reasons, everything is a crime. For the right reasons, crimes, in the end, are still crimes."

At that, they both fell silent. The wine was finished and they had no words left to say. It seemed to Angelina that Grell always got the last word, and it bothered her to no end, but the tingling in her fingers travelled through her veins, and her mind grew foggy. They drink to forget, and it does make them forget. They forget boundaries and borders, what is sane and what is true. Madame Red rested her head on Grell's shoulder, letting her figure fall into the other woman's, matching the pace of their breaths. She allowed herself defeat, and it broke her as much as it made her feel alive.

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 **Brief A/N:** Regarding the Guest who left that lovely review: Damn, they're on to me! Nobody must know that my true inspiration comes from a children's television show!


	3. Envy

**Author's Note:** Sorry I haven't written anything in a while. I've been busy with other things, but now that it's summer break, I can probably focus more of my time on writing.

Trying to kick start myself back into this fanfiction was extremely challenging, hence the reason why you come to find this retched chapter to be next. And, I say this with full consciousness of my writing: This chapter was all over the place. Honestly, I just wanted to get it done and get it to you all. I also apologize that it's shorter this time.

I thank all of you who stuck through with this, and I promise that the next chapter will be better! I just wanted to get a better look into Angelina's mind, and what drove her to kill, or perhaps, be killed. Enjoy, everyone!

Also, I forgot to mention: please continue to review this fanfiction! It is extremely helpful to me, and I learn from what you guys tell me about my writing. Constructive criticism is extremely welcome!

And finally, to the guest who left that extremely helpful and lovely review: Thank you so much for reviewing, it means a lot! I'm glad you like this story so far. About the way they speak - they did have different dialects in 19th century England. Although some people might not write with them, (and I daresay I don't exactly use them properly myself), I do like the way it makes my writing sound. Or rather, my dialogue, for that matter. I believe it makes it sound a lot more intelligent, and it does add to the writing. I do understand that it makes the writing a little bit hard to understand, though. I'll try not to use those dialects in the future. Thanks again for the feedback!

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Angelina thought she was done with crying. It had taken so much of her energy and time. The only thing she would do was cry, and it would get her absolutely nothing. After she dried her red, swollen eyes and washed her face of streaks of tears, and forced herself to calm down, she didn't attain anything that she'd lost. She still had to live, knowing that everyone she loved was gone, and there was nothing she could do about it. Madame Red thought that she wasn't going to cry any longer. But, even with the realization that crying didn't get her anywhere, she still found herself crying. Emotions welled up all over again. The sadness that she felt so constantly bore itself down on her shoulders again so that her posture stooped. She remembered the hours of practice with her sister, walking with thick, heavy books on her head to straighten out her back and gain a perfect posture, and suddenly felt lonely. Now that her sister was gone, who else would be there to remember their childhood? Every afternoon spent together, stuck inside playing with dolls when it rained, or outside talking walks, practicing concealing their faces behind fans and subtly twirling parasols, for when they'd walk arm-in-arm with men instead of each other. Who else would be there to laugh with her about memories and fondly recall their youth? Angelina felt much too old. The emotion that overcame even the sadness and the loneliness she felt, however, was anger. She was angry. Red hot and fiery, grinding molars and clutching fists. Envious anger. Crimson flashing behind her eyes, envious for everything lost in the fire. Envious for everything her sister had.

Today will be the hardest, she thought. Everyone else had paid their respects and left, but how could she leave? Hours after the initial funeral, she still stood in front of the graves, looking down at their names. **Rachael Phantomhive; beloved daughter, wife and mother. Vincent Phantomhive; beloved husband, father, and friend.** She'd read the headstones over and over, words burning into her mind. Words engraved on granite and white marble, words that would soon fade away with time. The words stung her thoughts like the tears that stung her cheeks. At first, she was numb. Her face broke into an emotionless, distant stare as guests to the funeral hugged her and sympathized with her loss. How could they understand what she was going through? Everything she every loved was gone. Her sister, who was the only thing in the world who could bring a smile to her face after the accident, was gone. Her sister's husband, who was the only man she'd ever loved, was gone. Their precious son, who was everything Angelina ever wanted and couldn't have, was gone. One night changed her entire life. It seemed to Angelina that her entire life was just a procession of losses, one after the other. How tragic, she thought, to only ever experience love to have it taken away from you. Surely though. There must be somebody who feels the same way. Could she truly be alone in this world? Her hands shook, gripping the bouquet of flowers tighter in her hands, to have a grip on something, if not sanity. She was sad for what she lost, but was angry for what she never had.

Her sister took everything away from her. No, that was silly. How could she have known? Vincent was the only man who made her feel more than just Rachael's shadow, and once again, her sister had to steal that away from her, too. But, somewhere deep in Angelina's mind, she had to pin the blame on her sister. All the anger that she felt inside, for the perfect life she'd never have, and the children she'd never bring into the world, and the agony of abandonment; it all had to be blamed on something. Unfortunately, the person taking the blame was a woman who was reduced to ashes in a fire that burned a lot more then cobblestone, brick, and flesh. They had nothing to bury. Angelina had nothing to weep over. She at least needed something to blame.

Standing in front of their graves was not the hardest thing she'd have to do, but in that moment, it felt like it would be the end of her. The dull, black Henrietta skirts and lace trim of her dress brushed over the ground, and was eventually tucked underneath her as she lowered herself to her knees. She didn't care if it got dirty. She'd only have to buy another, which wasn't too terribly unfortunate. Money meant nothing to her now. Angelina tugged on the ivory muslin cuffs of the sleeves, pulling it down over her knuckles, with the eyelet lacing scratching over her skin. The only thing she could result to was to keep her hands in her lap, smoothing out wrinkles in the twilled, glossy fabric. Even as grey clouds bunched together in the sky, and rain was wringed from the storm clouds, she stayed steady in her position. Her blasted red hair fell over her shoulders and soaked through even the heavy boning of her corset. Cold water soaked through every thick layer of clothing and turned her skin rigid, frozen and raw with the freezing rain. Chills were sent up her spine as thunder roared above her head. Her stringy, wet hair clung to her scalp and fell into her eyes as she hung her head, tucking her chin against the scratching lawn collar that had smooth, ivory buttons fastened from the neckline of the bodice, over her collarbones and up to the top of her neck. The only comforting thought in her mind was that nobody could see her crying with the black crepe veil in front of her face. Or at least, the tears would disappear into the raindrops that fell down her face. At this point, she felt utterly alone. Angelina thought she was done crying, much like the way she thought she was done living in her sister's shadow. She tried to become her own person and make a life for herself. She tried to use her curse as an asset. The crimson hair that she always hated, she came to recognize could be an advantage. The hair that he called beautiful, like spider lilies. Anne used that flair of red to her advantage, as much as she could.

Becoming 'Madame Red' couldn't make her forget her past self, though. The envy she still felt coursing through her veins wouldn't leave her. Everything felt wrong with who she had become. She wanted everything her sister had, or at least something more then what she was handed. Now, kneeling in front of her sister's grave, she realized that the envy that pushed her to change herself in order to feel like she was worth more than just a person along the sidelines of her sister's life was the only thing that was still driving her to her knees.

Angelina blinked the rain out of her eyes, or were they tears? She didn't care to assess it. All she wanted now was to see, to push the blinding anger from her eyes and take a look at the situation she'd found herself in. All those years spent of her childhood, telling Rachael that she was beautiful, while all she ever wanted was to be able to look at herself in the mirror and see something she liked. All those years that she wasted, pretending to be a scarlet woman that was more than a shadow in someone else's life. Something was driving her to still be used while she tried to escape. Now, she was kneeling in front of a dead woman's grave, next to a man that was equally as dead. Rachael was dead now. As much as Angelina wanted her sister back, somehow she felt free. She didn't have to live in Rachael's shadow any longer, not when her sister wasn't alive to stand in the sun any longer. Madame Red could never have Vincent to herself, and now, nothing had changed. She wasn't going to get him back any more then she could when he was alive. Something clicked in her head, as she straightened her back and squared her shoulders, staring down at the headstones she had wasted the entire day mourning over. Her sister and her husband wasn't alive for her to be envious of any longer. Her sister spent her entire life getting what she wanted. Now that she was lying in eternal rest, with everything she had won over from Angelina, why should she get anything more?

Madame Red slowly got up to her feet, regaining her footing as she stretched out her legs. She tried to look tall as she regained her balance, clutching the bouquet of flowers in her hands with a new reassurance. Why did her sister deserve these flowers? Angelina turned away from the graves, peeling her wet hair from her face, brushing the crimson tresses behind her ear as she walked away, with the perfect posture she'd spent hours in her youth mastering. She'd put the flowers in a nice vase once she got home, she decided. Angelina was right. She was done with crying. It was time for her to get what she wanted. Now, others could be envious of her. After so long being rejected, why couldn't she taste a little bit of what her sister had?

As she wiped her face for the last time, with the bulky mourning cuffs of her dress, she looked up to the sky. It had stopped raining, and the sun poked its face from behind the clouds. What did she want? Be it flowers or happiness, she was going to get it. Maybe it was anger. Perhaps it was love, or the sweet taste of revenge. Angelina smiled. It felt odd to smile, after spending so long crying. It was good to smile, and she realized that she was smiling, not because her sister made a vain attempt to make her happy, but because she lit a spark in herself, on her own accord, to do something good for herself.

This was good, she realized. You're leaving everything behind.

Something whispered behind her, now only a faint murmur instead of a persistent scream. _Was this good? Who will envy you, Angelina? Who will mourn for you?_


End file.
